In The End
by KelliP
Summary: "Talk to me, Kate. Please. Because I feel like you're pulling away and there's nothing I can do."


Possible spoilers in this? I'd say not. This idea has been in my head for so long now, but the two sentences of spoilers I did read gave it the necessary fuel. So spoiler-free people, it's your call.

* * *

**In The End**

* * *

Everything starts to crumble slowly, one thread pulled out at a time.

The first week, he wakes in the mornings to an empty bed. The sheets are still tucked around where she's lain in the nighttime but they've long grown cold, the traces of her fading into the cool air of dawn. It's the same each morning, the soft warmth of her presence always missing from his side. She leaves him with little more than a kiss at his shoulder to head for the Twelfth long before the sun is up. When he wakes alone, he lifts his head to press his cheek into her pillow, breath in the last notes of her scent. It's not enough, the ache of his heart always raw.

After that it's a more than a few missed calls. Tired excuses and half-hearted apologies. Too much distance as she sleeps across the city. A couple of awkward exchanges when he journeys to the Precinct only to find she isn't there.

She's never there.

It's not the same; _they're_ not the same. He's so tired of this.

It ends tonight.

* * *

His heart stops a little as she strolls casually through her apartment door. Suffice to say it hasn't been the easiest few weeks between them, a coffee date here and there not nearly enough. Now, the sudden sight of her throws his mind back to that first moment on the Manhattan rooftop, and it's like he's laying already enchanted eyes on her all over again. The catch of his breath deep in his throat, the fire igniting in his chest, the way everything around him fades into the background as she sparkles bright.

Oh. God, he's missed her.

She remains unaware of his presence at first, eyes glued to the mail she's flicking through, her back turned as she locks up behind her. It gives him a few seconds longer to drink in the lines of her body – the tender skin exposed at her neck, the slender curve of her hips as they sway, the lengthy miles of those denim-clad pins. It's not until the keys are clattering loud against the ceramic of the bowl beside the door and she's half-way through shrugging off that deep maroon coat does she pause. The few whispers of hair that have fallen loose from her bun fly around lightly as her head turns, eyes raking over her transformed apartment. Over the candlelit table, the bouquet perched at the far end of her kitchen counter, the aromatic pasta warming in the oven. It's all in search of him, finally meeting his set of waiting blues in the kitchen.

"What's all this?"

His stomach rolls with unease and he swallows hard. Not the grateful tone he'd been expecting. No. It was more – weary. Uncomfortable. Tentative. And the more he studies her, the more he realises this Kate is not the same one he met five years ago. The dark circles lining the lower rim of her eyes, the tired fall of cheeks void of life, the loose, thin curls don't frame her face, but hide her exhaustion – it all weighs her down, and presses heavy on his chest, too.

So he shrugs casually, plays this off as no big deal. As if he hasn't spent the better part of the afternoon doing all this just for her. As if he hasn't missed her terribly in his home, his bed – his life – these past few weeks.

"Haven't seen you much lately," he offers up gently. "Thought a quiet night in would be nice."

She shifts her weight on the spot and doesn't respond. He gives her a beat – one, two. Nothing.

"Beckett?"

Her shoulders sag with an unknown burden she carries, eyes dark as they too slip toward the ground. The distance between them is suddenly startling, too vast, but he digs his hip into the hard jut of the counter to fight the desperate need for her proximity. She needs space. He doesn't think he can take the flinching rejection.

Castle sets down the wooden spoon and wipes his hands clean with the dishtowel. "Everything okay?"

She chews on her lower lip, tugging so hard the smooth skin pales to a ghostly white.

"Talk to me, Kate. Please. Because - " His voice cracks, giving way to a shaky breath of air robbed from his lungs. "Because right now I feel like you're pulling away and there's nothing I can do."

There's a near infinite beat of silence, then -

"I was offered a job."

* * *

His throat closes over and his heart clenches tight, giving way to sink to the depths of his stomach. He doesn't like this. No. There's a reason she hasn't already shared what should be good news.

Asking for clarification, his voice is low. "A job?"

"Not – directly," she hesitates a little, palms smoothing down the shirt falling over her hips as if they're a little sweaty. "Just – Stenton threw the possibility out there. Told me if I ever was serious about a change to give him a call. Said he'd put in a good word for me."

"And you're thinking about it." It's not a question; it's a harsh accusation that strikes sharp on his tongue.

Earthy eyes drop guilty from his.

"Yeah. Got it."

"No, Castle," she calls for him when he moves to turn his back. "The F.B.I. – it would be an amazing opportunity for my career, yes. But I've seen what it does. I've seen the lives those people lead. They give up _everything_ to travel from city to city, hop from case to case, take it all week by week."

He runs his fingers through his hair and exhales a knotted huff. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Beckett falters. "I - "

She doesn't know.

He doesn't either.

The doubt niggling at the far-most corner of his mind rings out louder now and he can't help but wonder -

"Are we breaking up?"

She recoils hard at that, stumbles back to hit the door, knees buckling as she keels forward. One palm fumbles for purchase on the wall, fingernails scraping the paint clean off as she clings on.

"No," she rasps heavy. "No. Castle – no. How could you even think_ - _"

"How could I not?" The rough betrayal curls tight in his chest and he claws at it with desperate nails. "You come in here and you tell me there's this new job in a new city and for it you'd have to give up everything."

The most aching truth lingers in the silence.

She would have to give up him.

Beckett claps a hand over her mouth, muffles the strangled cry vibrating in her throat. She shakes her head almost violently to counter him, a single tear slipping loose from shining eyes to fall fast over her cheekbone. "I've already been down that hole, Castle," she rasps. "I've let my job consume me once before. I don't want that to happen again. I don't want to wake up in ten years time to a bed that you're not in and realise I've made all the wrong decisions because I gave you up."

"Then what _do_ you want?"

This time, the sob is heavy as it rips through her chest.

But her answer is sure.

"I want _you_."

* * *

It's a sudden bright light at his core, unfurling so warm and tender in his chest. He whispers slow on a breath that is sure and shakes at the same time because he just doesn't understand.

"Kate, you have me." He catches her eyes and pleads deep with his. "You have me."

"I want a life with you," she gasps again. "I want – God. I want a marriage and kids and everything that comes with it. All the sleepless nights and tantrums and sweaty, dirty kids – I want it all."

Oh. Oh, Kate.

"I want you," she whispers again.

"We can have all that, Kate," he tells her, earnest and begging because – yes. He wants it too. "Whatever you want. We can have it all."

There's a devastating moment when he think she's going to back up and run.

She doesn't.

She runs toward him.

* * *

Long after they've fallen to her bed, a sated mess of sweaty, tangled limbs that cast shadows in the moonlight, Castle lays awake.

So does Kate. She murmurs the promise of _I love you_ across his jaw, the sweep of her fingertips tender across his cheek, the heat of her body so fiercely passionate as her heart beats steady against his chest.

He was wrong. So wrong.

This isn't the end of them.

No.

In the end, this is just the beginning.

* * *

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